We got safely into the trench and relieved the Highland Light Infantry. The place was very quiet, they assured us, it is always the same. It has become trench etiquette to tell the relieving battalion that it is taking over a cushy position. By this trench next morning we found six newly made graves, telling how six Highlanders had met their death, killed in action. III--"THE DEAD MAN UNDER MY FEET" Next morning as I was looking through a periscope at the enemy's trenches, and wondering what was happening behind their sandbag line, a man from the sanitary squad came along sprinkling the trench with creosote and chloride of lime. "Seein' anything?" he asked. "Not much," I answered, "the grass is so high in front that I can see nothing but the tips of the enemy's parapets. There's some work for you here," I said. "Where?" "Under your feet," I told him. "The floor is soft as putty and smells vilely. Perhaps there is a dead man there. Last night I slept by the spot and it turned me sick." "Have you an entrenchin' tool?" I handed him the implement, he dug into the ground and presently unearthed a particle of clothing, five minutes later a boot came to view, then a second; fifteen minutes assiduous labour revealed an evil-smelling bundle of clothing and decayed flesh. I still remained an onlooker, but changed my position on the banquette. "He must have been dead a long time," said the sanitary man, as he flung handfuls of lime on the body, "see his face." He turned the thing on its back, its face up to the sky. The features were wonderfully well-preserved; the man might have fallen the day before. The nose pinched and thin, turned up a little at the point, the lips were drawn tight round the gums, the teeth showed dog-like and vicious; the eyes were open and raised towards the forehead, and the whole face was splashed with clotted blood. A wound could be seen on the left temple, the fatal bullet had gone through there. "He was killed in the winter," said the sanitary man, pointing at the gloves on the dead soldier's hand. "These trenches were the 'Allemands'' then, and the boys charged 'em. I suppose this feller copped a packet and dropped into the mud and was tramped down." "Who is he?" I asked. IV--A CRUCIFIX AND A LOVE LETTER The man with the chloride of lime opened the tunic and shirt of the dead man and brought out an identity disc. "Irish," he said, "Munster Fusiliers. What's this?" he asked, taking a string of beads with a little shiny crucifix on the end of it, from the dead man's neck. "It's his rosary," I said, and my mind saw in a vivid picture a barefooted boy going over the hills of Corrymeela to morning Mass, with his beads in his hand. On either side rose the thatched cabins of the peasantry, the peat smoke curling from the chimneys, the little boreens running through the bushes, the brown Irish bogs, the heather in blossom, the turf stacks, the laughing colleens....